Huntingbird: An A to Z of snapshot moments
by daisiesinajar
Summary: "Misgivings, n. No music. No flowers. No white gown— This isn't the wedding Izzy had envisioned for Bobbi." A collection of Huntingbird shorts based on random dictionary entries. May have multiple stories for each entry. Prompts very welcome.
1. willpower, n

**willpower**, _noun_

Somebody asks a question, something about them acting strangely.

They are standing next to each other, an arm's length apart. Together, but not. They shuffle their feet and make vague noises and look away. When it's clear that an answer is expected, Lance clears his throat several times.

"We uh," he folds his arms, "Uh."

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, "We're not..." and unfolds his arms, runs a hand through his buzz cut and folds his arms again.

The asker raises a brow questioningly. "You what? Spit it out Hunter."

Lance doesn't look at Bobbi, just shuffles his feet some more and looks everywhere but at her.

It's apparent he's not going to get the words out, so it's up to her, then.

"We're uh," it's Bobbi's turn to clear her throat, "We're no longer..."

She hunts for a suitably neutral word. "...partners," she settles. "We're no longer partners." Her arms cross in front of her, as if to protect herself against her own words. She nods once, resolute.

Lance edges away slightly, fingers tightening on his own folded arms, as if he could hug himself better.

The asker stares for a moment, uncomprehending, then realisation clicks in her eyes, and she mutters an apology and looks away and they start a shuffle dance, the three of them.

If Lance had looked more closely (or even just _looked_), he would have seen the rim of Bobbi's eyes turn red from the burn of tears that only didn't fall due to sheer willpower. He would have seen her square her jaw, to stop it from trembling. He would have seen her clutch her arms, not unlike what he was doing, to stop them from shaking. He would have seen-

But it made no matter, now.

If.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **This was inspired by The Lover's Dictionary by David Levithan and the random (and often angsty) short interactions between Hunter and Bobbi that pop up in my head from time to time.

Suggestions for other dictionary entries (and thus, shorts) are welcome.


	2. fear, n v

**fear**, _noun; verb_

If he's honest with himself (and he sometimes is, when he's had enough to drink), Lance knows he's a coward. He's pretty sure everyone thinks so too— they're just too polite to say so out loud.

Everyone except Bob, anyway. She just came right out and said it. It was one of the things he loved about her, that she always called him on his bullshit. And she was right, he thought, as he stumbled down the hallway, leaning against the wall for support.

He was a coward.

Tonight, though, was the first time she had ever said—no, _yelled_ it.

She didn't say it all those nights he had jack-knifed up in bed, heart pounding out of his chest and mind a thousand miles away in the dust and dirt and blood of his friends lying wide-eyed, slack-jawed around him; not when he had grabbed her wrist when she had gone to turn out the bedside lamps and left finger-shaped bruises that he was so ashamed of in the morning—and still was, actually; not the time he had tackled her to the ground in a blind panic when she had given him a gentle hug from the back and was this close to landing a punch.

No, each time the nightmares had caught up with him, she had been patient with him, had held his hand tightly until the episode had passed, had soothed him with soft words and quiet lullabies until he'd returned to himself. She had always been there for him, when she could, no matter how exhausted she was or how many horrors she had seen herself.

He tightened his grip on the paper wrapping and turned the corner, trying not to trip on his feet.

He would go see that therapist, he decided, if it meant she would love him again—if it meant she wouldn't leave him. He saw enough nightmares on his own at night, didn't see the point in reliving them in the daytime either, but if it meant she would rest easier in the hopes he would get better—he owed her that much, didn't he?

He straightened up in front of a familiar door, shaky on his feet, flowers clutched in his sweaty palm.

_Was this too little? Too late?_

She had been there for him, every step of the way. If he was honest with himself, and he had certainly drunk enough to be so, he was afraid that she would leave him: he wasn't sure he knew who he was without her anymore—and he wasn't sure he wanted, or dared, to find out.

_Coward_.

He had never been so afraid to lose someone in his life.

He knocked, and the door swung open almost immediately, like she had been expecting him. He wouldn't have put it past her—she had always known him better than he had known himself.

Lance offered up the flowers, a bouquet of apologies and regrets rolled up in brown paper.

Bobbi glanced from him to his proffered hand and touched her fingers to the bouquet. One side of her mouth tilted up.

"Hunter, those flowers are dead," she deadpanned.

Lance blinked and looked at the droopy stems. He hadn't realised. Before he could panic and worry if this was it, if this was the end, if the flowers symbolised their relationship—gentle hands took his and led him through the door into their home_._

* * *

><p><strong>An: **Based on a suggestion by La Madone, "fear".

Thanks for the suggestions, keep them coming! :)

I'd like to clarify that I'm not saying I think Hunter is a coward; I'm saying he thinks he is. I'm not saying Bobbi thinks he is, either (and I think she doesn't), I'm saying he thinks she does. :)


	3. osculate, v

**osculate**, _verb_

It was the fourth (or was it the fifth? Or sixth?) rendition of Happy Birthday when Bobbi leaned in to Lance while hefting a two-year-old higher on her hip, and said in an undertone, "I'm going to osculate you when we get home."

Lance had been confused ever since.

He had followed the direction of her gaze, but she was smiling at the brood of little humans crowding around that monstrosity of a cake and singing enthusiastically (without regard for pitch) and afterward had busied herself wiping the drool off his nephew's face.

He had wracked his brain for context, but came up with nothing: her statement was out of the blue, and they hadn't talked about anything in particular since the start of the party. He couldn't think of anything that had happened in the prior few days that could have warranted the statement, either. And what the bloody hell was obs...os... Whatever the hell was that word, anyway?!

When he finally got a moment to himself, he dug his phone out, grimaced at its stickiness from when it was handled by numerous little humans, and looked up 'obfuscate'. And frowned.

He finally found her in a corner, with a different child this time, feeding her a slice of cake.

"Bobbi?" he knitted his brows, still trying to make sense of her sentence.

"You said you want to..." he consulted his phone, "...obfuscate me?" He frowned.

"You want to confuse me when we get home?" He shook his head. "...Confuse me with...what, exactly?"

Bobbi stopped herself from rolling her eyes, but just barely. He had learned the signs of an almost-eyeroll a long time ago.

"I said 'osculate', Hunter, not 'obfuscate'," she said neutrally, her face giving nothing away.

She turned back to the child, "Really, you need to work on your listening skills." She resumed chattering to the child about her favourite doll and he knew it was pointless to continue asking.

And of course his phone would run out of juice.

He spent the rest of the party trying to figure out what 'osculate' meant. It just about near drove him insane with wondering, but every time he approached Bobbi, she looked like she would glare him to a painful death if he tried to press her about it. Since he wasn't entirely sure she didn't have some sort of laser-eye-killing-tech, he didn't want to push it.

Osculate. It sounded painful, and mechanical, like it would involve stainless steel tools of torture? But it also reminded him of 'oscillate', maybe it had something to do with spinning..? What the bloody hell was she going to spin him around for? With metal tools?! What had he done wrong now?!

By the time they got home, he had calmed down a great deal (or so he felt) and figured it was safe to ask. At least if he really did die by Death Glare, there wouldn't be any little humans around to serve as collateral damage.

"Bob?" he called, leaning against the wall for support as he peeled off a sock. He could hear her clattering about in the kitchen, keeping leftover rainbow cake that his aunt had insisted they absolutely must take home.

"That thing you said earlier. Did I do something wrong, or..?"

He heard rather than saw her approach him. He turned to face her, the second sock hanging off his foot.

"What does oscu- Mm!" He was cut off mid-sentence as Bobbi cupped his head, pushed him against the wall, and began a deep, thorough exploration of his mouth.

Two tossed shirts and one unbuckled belt later, they finally broke for air.

"Oh," he breathed dazedly, realisation having dawned on him sometime between losing his shirt and trying to get rid of hers. He was still pinned against the wall, their bodies still maintaining multiple delicious points of contact.

Bobbi just smirked in response.

Then he frowned, and Bobbi inched back a little from where she had been resting her forehead against his to regard him somewhat quizzically- as quizzically as it was possible to look with half-hooded eyes, anyway-

"What the bloody hell was wrong with 'kiss'?!"

* * *

><p><strong>An: **  
>osculate, <em>verb<br>_To kiss.

A happier fic :)


	4. undercover, adj

**undercover**, _adj._

Hunter,

I know you saw me on the corner of that street today. You know how you always say I have eyes in the back of my head? It's called noticing a reflection. You should know, you spend an hour preening in front of your own every morning.

I'm sorry I walked away without saying hi, or even acknowledging you. I couldn't risk the mission— but you know it's more than that. You're not supposed to die before I do, remember? You swore to sing that godawful dirge I hate at my funeral, the one you wouldn't stop singing for a week just to piss me off. Well, it worked. Sing it at my funeral; I might just get out of the coffin to shut you up again. One can only hope.

You're not supposed to die before me, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure that happens. I'm sorry.

Sometimes I wonder if these missions are worth it. If they're worth us. I know you say you understand, but I know a bit of the bitterness stays each time anyway—it's only human. I don't know how much of this you and I can take. I want you to know that I know, that I do think about it, and... I'm sorry.

When this is all over, when you finally get to read this, we'll have a laugh over it, okay?

It's getting harder to find creative places to store these letters; I feel like a squirrel hiding nuts for the winter. Good thing I like a challenge.

This will be over soon. I know I said that the last time—not that you would have gotten that letter, since it's still with me—but I'm trying, I promise.

Stay safe until I get back, okay?

Love,

Hell-Beast

Or whatever it is you've taken to calling me this time.

* * *

><p><strong>An: **One of the many letters from Bobbi to Hunter while she was on a mission.

Based on a suggestion by La Madone, 'undercover'. :) thanks for the prompt!

To the rest, thank you for your prompts as well! I'll work on them when the inspiration strikes :)


	5. neologism, n

**neologism**, _noun_

Lance's jaw fell open. "You've never seen peafowl! But… how can that be?" he sputtered.

Bobbi shrugged and continued channel surfing while he gaped like a fish out of water. She knew she should've kept her mouth shut instead of commenting that she had never seen a live peacock or peahen when she surfed past the National Geographic channel.

"You're twenty—" she narrowed her eyes at him, and he very wisely and swiftly changed his choice of words, "Ahh, I mean—You can't have lived this long without seeing peafowl! That's got to be a criminal lapse of education somewhere!"

"C'mon," he tugged at her arm, ignoring her groans and dragged feet. "We're going to look for peacocks."

Bobbi only let him drag her out because he'd had that determined look in his eye and she knew he wouldn't shut up about it until they did it, and she had been bored anyway. She figured strolling in a park with green grass, blue sky, fresh air, the works, was a nice change from their usual couch potato behaviour. Or at least, it would be, if they were actually taking a walk _together_.

Lance was several feet in front of her, peering high and low for peafowl. Every few minutes she would catch snippets of 'Bloody things. Never there when you want to see them, always in the way when you don't'. Then he would scowl to himself and turn back to her and announce that they "definitely would see one soon".

If he didn't look so adorable when he was so earnest, she would have told him that she really didn't give a peacock's crap about whether she ever saw one or not.

And then he went "A-_hah!_" triumphantly and yanked her toward the bird, practically running. She didn't see why they had to run, seeing as the bird seemed extremely unperturbed by them and wasn't going anywhere. She told him so, and added, "Peacocks can't fly."

Lance huffed in annoyance and muttered something about that not being the _point_, and then beckoned her closer.

"It's a male, it's a peacock, look! You can tell because it's so colourful. The female are called—"

"—Peahens. Yes, I know," she interrupted. "And they're a boring brown colour. Look, just because I've never _seen_ one in real life, Lance, doesn't mean I don't _know_ about them."

But he had stopped paying attention to her and was instead trailing the peacock, hunched over with his hands out in front of him like a weird creepy little man (which wasn't too far off the mark, if she thought about it), trying to make it spread its feathers.

"I can't get it to spread its wings," he whined, two feet behind a rather annoyed peacock, which was walking around in circles as if it was trying to shake him off.

Bobbi watched them from a distance, arms crossed and brows raised. _I know how you feel, _she thought to the peacock.

"It's its _feathers_, not wings, Hunter. Seriously, _you're_ probably the criminal lapse in education."

He flapped a hand at her in annoyance, scowling.

"And you do know that peacocks spread their plumage to attract peahens, right? So unless you get a peahen here…"

She heard something that sounded like 'know-it-all' and smirked, knowing she had won this round.

"Come on, let's head on home. We can watch peacocks spread their feathers on YouTube all night if you want."

"No! You've got to see this! It's a _life experience,_" he insisted. "Their plumage is magnificent," he reached out a hand to stroke the feathers trailing on the ground.

"Hunter!"

He withdrew his hand as if he had been whipped, and glared at her.

"What was that for?"

"Don't annoy the poor bird. I'm not going to save you if you piss it off," she warned.

"Fine, fine," he rolled his eyes in an eerily similar way to her and straightened up. "My beloved wife isn't going to save me from being pecked to death by angry peafowl, I get it."

She was about to retort something when he gasped in excitement as a peahen appeared out of nowhere. He tailed the peacock as it strutted toward the peahen, which paid him no notice and pecked the ground for food. The peacock circled the peahen twice, ruffling his feathers as he tried—and failed—to get her attention.

Bobbi couldn't help smiling when she realised what this reminded her of: it reminded her of Lance trying to get her attention. He would follow her around, saying and doing increasingly ridiculous things, culminating in—

She had to swallow a laugh as the peacock finally spread his feathers (Lance yelped and leapt away) and arranged them haughtily, standing right in front of the peahen with its neck arched high, practically screaming 'Notice me!'. Yep, it definitely reminded her of Lance.

The peahen didn't even glance at the peacock, which seemed to be getting increasingly frustrated. It ruffled its red-brown wings and waved its iridescent feathers in some sort of dance, but—still nothing.

Lance turned to her, aghast, "Look at him peacocking! And she won't even _look_ at him!"

Bobbi couldn't help it. She burst out laughing, while Lance looked indignant and confused and eventually scowled saying it wasn't funny, what was she laughing about, the poor bird was being ignored by that arrogant, presumptuous hen.

"Sweetheart," she laughed, coming up to wrap her arms around his waist beneath his own folded ones. She bent to rest her head on his shoulder as they watched the peacock continue his mating dance to no avail, "No one uses the word 'peacocking'."

* * *

><p><strong>An: **  
>neologism, noun.<br>A newly coined word or expression; a made-up word.

A reference to their argument in S02E06, A Fractured House. ;)


	6. dearth, n

**dearth**, _noun_

_Beep._

"_Hey mate, I'm sorry I'm not able to answer your call right now, but—"_

"_Hunter! For once, just _once, _could you remember to soak your dishes when you're done eating? I swear you break them on purpose to get out of dishwashing—"_

_[Muffled shouts]_

_[Loud exhale]_

"_Sorry 'bout that, that was the she-devil hell-beast I'm currently residing with. As I said, I'm not able to take your call right now, but if you'll leave a message—"_

"_Hunter, where's Mr Boots?"_

_[Slightly muffled] "Damn it Bobbi how would I know?" _

"_Well, it's _your_ cat."_

"_Why do you want it for! It's a cat, it's roaming around, just leave it be—" _

"_You left the front door open Hunter, if I have to go out searching for him in the middle of the night _again—"

_[Movements]_

"_Bloody hell."_

_Beep._

"Hey Hunter."

Bobbi bit her lip.

"I… I know I should stop calling, it's not like you'll pick up anyway; this phone has been dead for months."

She picked at her hoodie. It had been Lance's, but it was too comfortable, and she'd never given it back. They'd fought over it. He'd stopped asking, after a while.

"I just… I just wanted to hear your voice," she gave a shaky laugh. "Even if we're arguing for most of it."

"And this is the part where you ask if I'm on drugs, because I never say these things."

"But uh… It's strange, y'know? It's strange to come home to peace and quiet—and that wasn't an insult!—It's strange not to argue with someone—not to have someone to argue with."

She hugged herself tightly, inhaling the scent of the hoodie. It hardly smelt like him, anymore; she had worn it too often, and worn the smell off, she supposed.

"I miss you," she murmured.

"I wouldn't even mind the cat, just for company. Because he was yours."

"Okay. Okay, _that _was cheesy. I'm sorry," she chuckled, and somehow it turned into a sob mid-laugh.

She exhaled shakily, brushing off tears with the back of her hand.

"_God, _I miss you," she repeated, not bothering to hide the tremors in her voice, because who would hear it?

"I miss you, you idiot. I know I've said this every time I've called… But I do."

"Sometimes, I wish you would just pick up."

_Beep. _

_End of message._

* * *

><p><strong>dearth<strong>, _noun  
><em>an inadequate supply; lack; scarcity and dearness of something _(or someone)_

Origin: relates to the same Old English root from which "dear" is derived.

Because I'm feeling particularly emotional tonight, and (wrongly) thought writing would help.


	7. nonesuch, n

**nonesuch**, _n_

_Screams._

_Smoke._

_Eight little girls, huddled in a corner silently, faces streaked and blackened with soot._

_Eight pairs of eyes, staring at her like she was their salvation._

_An ominous creak, a crushing blow, then—nothing._

Bobbi jack-knifed in bed gasping for air, throat on fire, as if she had just been choking on smoke. A dull ache throbbed at the base of her skull exactly where the beam had hit her all those years ago. For a moment, all she could see were those eyes, large and trusting, staring at her, staring, staring—

And then a warm hand covered hers slowly, bringing her out of the memory, saving her.

"Another one?" Lance asked quietly.

She nodded, heart racing, not trusting herself to speak.

"C'mere," he said, pulling her in to rest against his chest. They lay like that for a while, motionless, her head beneath his chin, his arms wrapped around her tightly, as if he could shield her from her nightmares, until she had been calmed by the steady thump of his heartbeat.

Bobbi inhaled and exhaled slowly. She could feel Lance's fingers in her hair, stroking and pulling gently in the knowledge that the worst of it was over. She knew he probably had not slept all night, probably had waited for her to wake up from this nightmare or that failure, because when it came to her, and her alone, he seemed to notice all the signs.

Someone who cared for her, who could read her, who knew what she would need; someone who _understood_ the agony of recurring nightmares; someone who would, and had gone to great lengths to protect her—someone she didn't have to pretend with; someone she could be vulnerable with; someone she could trust.

Someone she loved, who loved her back, dirt, grit, flaws and all. She laced her fingers with his. What more could she ask?

She took a deep breath. "Lance?"

"Hmm?"

"Yes."

"Yes…what?" he asked confusedly, forehead crinkling in that way he did so often.

"Remember that question you asked me, that one time?" she began, the sides of her lips slowly tilting up.

"Wha—"

It took a few moments, but Lance finally pulled away to look her in the eye, hope bubbling over into his voice.

"You don't mean the time when—"

She nodded, feeling colour rush to her cheeks in an uncharacteristic display of shyness.

Lance gaped at her, a grin spreading wide across his features as the significance of her reply sank in.

"Yes? Really? You're not joshing me are you—no?" He stared at her in wonderment, like he had never seen her before.

Then he threw his head back and laughed and tugged her beneath the blanket, peppering her with kisses.

"Bobbi Hunter," he said thoughtfully. "I could get used to that."

"Who said I'm taking your last name?" she scoffed in mock offence, and laughed as Lance protested and started listing nonsensical reasons for her to do so.

She hadn't felt so light in a very long time.

* * *

><p><strong>An:**

**nonesuch, **_n.  
><em>a person or thing without equal.

Seems a bit of an exaggeration with regard to Hunter, I admit...

**Part 1/3 of the Valentine's series ;) check back for more!**


	8. misgivings, n

**misgivings**, _noun_

No music. No flowers. No white gown—the most important dress in a woman's life, not that Izzy cares; and Bobbi is far from virginal anyway, judging from all her regular tousle-headed morning appearances with Hunter— but that doesn't make it okay.

This isn't the wedding Izzy had envisioned for Bobbi.

-o-

When Bobbi had first told her, she'd thought she was joking. Then she saw how Bobbi's lips were curved upward in a permanent smile, how the light in her eyes made her seem years younger, how there was a new bounce in her step, and she was incredulous.

* * *

><p>"He's just one guy, Barbara. Sure, maybe he's really that good in bed, but is that any reason to <em>marry<em> him?"

Izzy shakes her head, not understanding. "Why would you tie yourself to some jackass who pisses you off half the time—you're always arguing! If he's really that good, you could just have your fun with him and move on when you're sick of him, it's the 21st century Barb, no one's gonna judge you for that."

Bobbi laughs at her 'jackass' comment, then turns solemn, a small smile gracing her lips, "It's more than that, Iz," she says quietly. "And besides," she adds after a pause, "You know I don't do that. Not anymore."

Izzy is silent for a moment, before bringing up something that she had wanted to keep secret. Everyone had their demons, after all—

"There's something I never told you," she begins hesitantly, "Something I'm not sure you know about."

It had been a Tuesday night, and Lance was over at their apartment, waiting for Bobbi to return from a mission. He had finally dozed off, much to Izzy's relief— he hadn't stopped talking all night, and she was this close to slipping an Ambien (or a handful) into his beer just to have some peace and quiet. There had been a sudden loud noise, probably something the upstairs neighbour had dropped onto the floor, and the next moment Hunter had leapt off the couch, yelling at invisible buddies to take cover, wrestling enemies who weren't there, eyes dark and panicked with remembered horrors.

It had taken the good part of an hour just holding his hand and rubbing his back, before the darkness lifted and was replaced by shame. When he'd realised where he was and what had happened, Lance had scrubbed his face, muttered a hoarse 'thank you', and slipped out the door unsteadily before she could say another word.

She watches Bobbi as she recounts the incident, but she keeps her face averted, curls shielding her face from sight. Izzy pauses in a memory—she had just picked up knitting then, she'd read somewhere that the repetitive action was calming, and she'd needed some calm in their line of work, more so since Hunter had started coming over so often. She remembered how the row of messy stitches she had painstakingly knitted had come unravelled amidst all the activity, and how it had struck and unsettled her at the time, as if it was some morbid foretelling of Lance's mental state—but she keeps that detail to herself. It won't help, after all. But it still unsettles her.

Izzy notes how Bobbi is preternaturally still, as if to keep from shaking—just like she had taught her, atta girl— her hands carefully and casually relaxed atop the kitchen table.

He's suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, Izzy tells her, and it was possible that his chronic alcoholism wasn't just because he was a slob, but was to cover up—cover up something else.

Now that she knows to look for it, Izzy has seen moments when Lance's mask of inappropriate jokes and casual nonchalance had slipped, to reveal pain and horrors that hovered at the edges of his consciousness, barely held at bay.

"It's PTSD, and he's in the thick of it— but you already knew that," she realises when Bobbi meets her eyes, red-rimmed from holding back tears, pained from restrained sorrow.

She nods. "Yes, I know," she says softly.

"Barb... You know I love you, and I want the best for you." Izzy pauses, unsure of how to continue. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"You shouldn't stay just because you would feel guilty for leaving. You're not responsible for him, Barb. You don't have to make him better; you don't have to fix him. If—God forbid— something happens to him one day, it won't be your fault," she says earnestly. "You shouldn't stay just because he needs you— you definitely shouldn't _marry_ him just because he needs you."

"I don't mean to tell you what to do, Bobbi," she softens, "But I love you— you're like a sister to me, and I want the best for you."

She swallows, knowing that if Bobbi really does decide to go ahead with the marriage, she wants her to have considered all aspects, "I don't want you to be someone else's crutch, to always be the one to look out for him. I'm afraid that one day it'll blow up in both your faces and leave you worse off than before."

"I don't want you to be someone else's crutch, Barb," she says, getting emotional. She squeezes her hand. "You deserve more than that."

Bobbi is silent for a long while, her golden curls curtaining her face. When she finally looks up, there are ghosts in her eyes, and she looks ten, twenty years older.

"I have nightmares too, Iz," she whispers, letting her mask slip for a moment to show her the missions, the deaths, the _what ifs_ and the _maybe-I-could-haves_ that still haunted her after all these years, before averting her eyes, missing the stunned, pained look on Izzy's face.

This was Barbara— her little sister—_she should have known_. How could she not have known? She'd thought she'd gotten over those missions years ago—

"He's as much my crutch as I am his, Iz," Bobbi gives a hollow laugh and wipes away an escaped tear. "He pisses me off all the time, but it keeps me sane—it makes me feel alive. I can _feel_ with him—even if most of the time that feeling is annoyance."

"And... He knows what it's like. The nightmares." She swallows the lump in her throat, swallows the familiar rise of panic. "To... To relive them over and over, to see friends die, or get hurt, and wonder what else you could have done."

She looks up at Izzy, eyes brimming with tears. "He gets it. He gets _me._"

She takes a shaky breath, "And he doesn't press me to tell him about it, he doesn't..." she squeezes her eyes shut, liquid salt running a familiar path down her cheek.

"He gets me Iz," she says simply. "I don't have to hide with him, because I can't— he sees right through me." She shakes her head in disbelief and amazement at the realisation that _they are getting married_, and when she smiles, it lights up her eyes and face and make her look as if she is glowing from within.

"I love him, Izzy."

* * *

><p>She regrets that she hadn't noticed Bobbi's pain herself, and frankly, is a little hurt that she had gone to someone else for comfort—but, she thinks with a sigh, it's probably her fault for teaching Bobbi how to control and suppress her emotions so well—well enough to fool her; though, it appeared, not well enough to fool Hunter (which is strange in itself, because he's one of the most oblivious idiots she has ever met who is also a spy—she often wonders how he's even survived this long).<p>

If she had her way, if arranged marriages were still a thing, Izzy would have chosen someone else for Bobbi— someone a little less aggravating, a little less childish, and a lot more emotionally stable.

But, she supposes, suppressing a heavy sigh as the couple bend over in soiled tactical gear (probably the furthest thing from _pristine white dress _they could get) to sign the papers, if he was good enough for her Barbara, he was good enough for her.

* * *

><p><strong>An:**

**misgivings**, _noun  
><em>a feeling of doubt, distrust, or apprehension

Part 2/3 of the Valentine's series ;)

A response to mockingjaylane's prompt, 'misgivings'. I hope you liked it! :)


	9. swivet, n

**swivet**, _noun_

Hunter asks Bobbi to close her eyes, and after a bit of grumbling, she does— she's in a good mood.

Hunter carefully opens the sapphire velveteen box, worn and faded with age, and removes two vintage pearl earrings. He removes the backing from one, just like his mum had taught him, and leans in to Bobbi—

"Hunter, _what_ are you doing?"

"Nothing!" he yelps. He draws back hasily, hiding the pearls in his fist.

He clears his throat. "Nothing," he says more calmly. "Close your eyes Bob, it's meant to be a surprise."

Bobbi narrows her eyes at him.

"Okay..." she says slowly. "...But it'd better not be a prank... You know I prank better than you do." She smiles mischievously, and he's not sure whether he should take that as a warning.

He laughs nervously instead. "It's not a prank Bob, just close your eyes."

It takes him a while, but he finally manages to attach one earring to her ear and sighs in relief.

Bobbi holds out her hand for the other earring, eyes still closed.

Lance looks down at her outstretched palm. "No, I should do it—"

"Just give it to me Hunter, or we'll spend another fifteen minutes sitting here while you swear down my ear and butcher my ear lobe," she insists, and Lance sighs loudly to let her know he's not agreeable to this arrangement and _really_, he didn't take _that_ long, she was just exaggerating again.

She puts on the earrings in two seconds flat, and Lance can't help but marvel at her ability to manipulate small fiddly things.

(He ignores the snarky voice in his head—it sounds like her, by the way— that says he's a small fiddly thing too and she's managed to manipulate him just fine.)

Bobbi raises her eyebrows. "So... what are these?"

She reaches a hand to her ear to feel and frowns. "Are these pearls?"

Her voice takes on a wary tone. "Is today some special occasion? Because I was _sure_ I marked down everything, and the next date we agreed to celebrate was Valentine's eve, and that's not for another two weeks..." her voice trails off as she realises Lance has one knee on the ground.

"Hunter," she says, a tinge of panic and nervousness in her voice, "What are you doing?"

Lance swallows. He's glad he decided to get flowers, because who knew having something to clutch helped this much with anxiety?

"Bob—" he clears his throat, looking into her panicked eyes, trying not to let her panic affect him.

"Barbara Morse," he starts, and his voice comes out huskier than it meant it, but it's a good thing, good, "I've loved you since I first saw you uh... Ah..." he pinches the bridge of his nose and scrunches up his face.

"Since I first saw you… at uh… Bloody hell, I can't believe I forgot, I had a whole speech and everything— Ah... I uh..."

He tries again, "I know it hasn't been long Bob, not as long as you'd like, but I... Uh... I think... Oh damn it."

He shakes his head, giving up. He stares earnestly into her still wide-with-panic eyes, and takes her hand in his sweaty one.

"I love you. Marry me," he says desperately, clutching her hand tightly.

His ears ring in the ensuing silence. When his dad had told him that the silence after this question would be the longest silence in his life, he had laughed it off. He owed his dad an apology.

"Hunter—Lance- I..." Bobbi stammers, staring back at him, speechless for once.

His heart is beating fit to burst right out of his ribcage. "Well?" he asks hopefully.

"I... What..." she shakes her head, trying to skirt the question she doesn't know how to answer.

"W..What about a ring?" she hedges, hoping that will throw him off-track while she gathers her thoughts.

"Well, you have missions all the time, I didn't think you'd like to be toting around a diamond," he explains, feeling clever.

"So... your solution was to get me large pearl earrings..?" Bobbi narrows her eyes, trying to figure out his thought process. "How does that make any more sense than a ring?"

Lance gapes at her, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. Bobbi rolls her eyes. Evidently, that had not occurred to him.

"Well... Those are my nan's pearl earrings!" he sputters defensively. "It was supposed to be a nice _gesture_!"

"You want me to wear your _grandmother's pearl earrings_ on assignments?!"

* * *

><p><strong>An:  
><strong>**swivet**, _noun  
><em>a state of nervous excitement, haste, or anxiety; flutter

Part 3/3 of the Valentine's series ;)

Hope you enjoyed the series!

And Happy Valentine's to all of us who are living vicariously through fanfiction, haha. Hope you had a good one!


	10. band-aid, n

**band-aid,**_ noun_

As an April Fools' prank, Skye replaces all the regular band-aids in all the first-aid kits with bright pink Hello Kitty ones. It's meant to be a prank on the whole team, but they all know there's really only one klutz in their group—or at least only one without access to his own personal supply of medical supplies. She informs Fitzsimmons to keep their stash to themselves, and after a bit of coaxing and reassuring ("But what if it's a proper medical emergency?" Simmons had asked), they acquiesce, if somewhat bewilderedly.

For the next few days, Skye keeps an ear out for sudden loud exclamations. She doesn't have to wait very long—there's a reason why Bobbi constantly laments that she seems to be on permanent babysitting duty, after all. Sure enough, one day:

"_Oi, who swopped out all the band-aids!"_

Skye prays that the wound is in a visible, preferably embarrassing, location.

By the time she not-so-accidentally finds Lance (she'd checked the cameras on base), he's nursing a beer on the couch in the break room and looks as grumpy as that cat on the mug in the kitchen. He looks up when she enters, and her eyes widen as she stifles a giggle.

"What." Lance scowls at her and resumes pouting at the blank television screen, muttering something about a "she-devil" and "hell-beast" and "get hurt just thinking about her" under his breath.

Skye straightens her face with some effort and is about to feign innocent concern about his injury, when Bobbi pops in her head in, "Hey—"

They both turn toward her instinctively, and Bobbi catches sight of Lance and stops short. "_Is that a cat on your face Hunter?" _She bursts out laughing, and Skye can't help it, she joins in, and they both ignore Lance's outraged protestations that _some very cruel person _used up all the band-aids and these were the only ones left—and he had to patch up his head, didn't he, _it was a health and safety issue—_

In between cackling (mostly at Lance's reaction—it wouldn't have been half as funny if he hadn't reacted that way, but that was what Skye had been going for in the first place), Bobbi informs Skye that May wanted her, and they both take off, leaving Lance aghast and sputtering about the _injustice_ of it all with pink and white cats plastered across his forehead.

* * *

><p><strong>An:**

**Band-Aid**, _noun, trademark.  
><em>A brand name of Johnson & Johnson's line of adhesive bandages.

A prompt from Sam (guest), some time back.

Thank you so much for the prompts guys! I'll definitely respond to all of them, it'll just take some time for inspiration and prompts to match up :) meanwhile, I hope you enjoy the stories, and do keep the prompts coming!

I would really appreciate a review if you liked the shorts as well! :)

**Replies  
><strong>Sam: hope you liked how the prompt turned out!

Sasha: Thank you for your reviews! Glad you seem to have enjoyed them so far if you want, you could check out my other stories and let me know what you think of them! I would love to hear your feedback! (and really this goes for everyone—feedback is always welcome)


	11. enceinte, adj

**enceinte**, _adj_

Hunter looked up from the tablet, distracted by the sound of someone moaning and throwing up in the bathroom. He left the tablet where he had found it, still open to the Google page, and made his way dazedly toward the sound.

He wasn't sure what to think— hell, he wasn't even sure what he felt.

He found Bobbi curled around the seat of the toilet, and wordlessly held her hair and rubbed soothing circles into her back as she emptied the contents of her stomach into the bowl.

"Here," he said sometime later, placing a glass of warm water in front of her. He perched on the kitchen stool beside her.

Bobbi made an unintelligible sound, her head cradled in her palms.

"Drink up, you need to rehydrate," he coaxed, stalling for time, still unsure of how he should react. The only thing stopping him from blowing his top was how pale and weak she seemed—He'd never seen her like that. Then again, he would have, but she hadn't given him that chance, had she? Hunter took a deep breath and bit down on the rising anger.

"C'mon," he prompted.

Bobbi cracked her eyes open and smiled gratefully, taking tentative sips.

Hunter took a deep breath. "So," he began conversationally, "When were you going to tell me about the baby?"

Bobbi sputtered. Her gaze flew toward his quickly, her eyes suddenly alert, her shoulders tense. But she recovered quickly—the next moment, they had relaxed, and only her eyes remained slightly wary. He would've marveled at her control if it hadn't been directed toward him.

"What are you talking about?" she frowned, expression filled with just the right amount of confusion.

Oh, she was _good_.

"You know what I'm talking about, Bobbi." He could feel his frustration rising to the surface. "I went to Simmons."

"Why did you go to—"

"You _know_ why," Hunter interrupted. His eyes bore into her. "Simmons is a really bad liar, Bob."

Bobbi's eyes flashed. "I have no idea—"

"No idea what I'm talking about? Really, Bob?" Hunter left to retrieve the tablet and slammed it down on the counter in front of her, screen bright, the search box a screaming accusation: _How to tell your ex you're pregnant with his second child when he doesn't know about the first?_

Bobbi swallowed. She must've left the page open when the morning sickness had hit. She didn't ordinarily do such banal things, and she didn't think Google would actually provide answers, it was just that she had been so frustrated and anxious and didn't know where else to turn. Simmons had known, but only because she couldn't bring herself to believe the five positive pregnancy tests and had asked her to run a blood sample instead. And she had been of no help at all on the Hunter front— 'Just tell him!' she'd said.

"Hunter, I—"

"When were you going to tell me, Barbara? When your stomach got too big to hide? You were going to pretend it was, what, Coulson's kid, is that it?"

A sudden horror entered his eyes. "Were you going to abort—"

"_No!_"

Bobbi wrapped her arms around her midriff protectively. "No," she repeated softly. "I would never do that. Not after…" her voice trembled and broke as they both remembered the child they'd had, and lost.

"'The first'." Hunter shook himself from the darkness of the memory and pointed at the screen. "Tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means Bob," he said tightly.

When she finally looked up from the screen, she had tears in her eyes. It was so uncharacteristic of her that it almost shocked him into forgetting what she'd lied to him about, and he had to resist the urge to draw her into his arms.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, lip trembling.

He had guessed—he had _known_, it was the obvious inference, but hearing her confirmation—

"Sorry? _Sorry? You kept my child from me_!" he bellowed. "How could you be so selfish—how could—why—Were you ever going to tell me, or were you going to keep it a secret forever—Did you—You did it to spite me, didn't you—"

"You wanted a divorce!" Bobbi cried, cutting him off. She buried her face in her hands for a moment, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"We'd been quarreling a lot more than usual," she began shakily, scrubbing her face of tears and meeting his gaze so he would know she wasn't lying. "We weren't talking much, or at all, really," she laughed bitterly, and he knew she was recalling their toxic routine of zero communication and lots of make-up sex, "...and one night, you left."

She shrugged, hunching into herself. "I was going to tell you that night," she said quietly. "But you said you couldn't do this anymore, that you were glad we didn't have any children, because our marriage would've been a terrible environment to bring them up in," she gulped, swallowing back tears and remembered pain.

"I was going to tell you about this—" she said, her palm flat on her belly, at the same time as he yelled, "So you're going to pin that on me?!"

"I'm not pinning that on you, I'm just telling you how things were at the time!" she retorted. "I didn't want you to stay with me because of a baby, it wouldn't have worked out—" she stopped abruptly and blanched, her hands flying to her mouth. Then she darted back into the bathroom and dry heaved into the toilet.

Hunter found her on the floor of the bathroom, leaning against the wall with her knees drawn up. He slid down to join her, shoulders almost touching, and handed her another glass of water. She took it from him gratefully.

"He's almost two," she ventured eventually, tentatively, a peace offering.

A knot formed in Hunter's throat. He had a son. A little boy. He nodded brusquely, not trusting himself to speak.

"He looks like you. He has your eyes," she said, smiling fondly, lost in memory. "Oh, and your dimples."

Tentatively, Hunter reached over and took her hands in his. She looked over at him apprehensively. He was still angry, and they were going to quarrel about this again more than once, he knew, but that wasn't what was important right now.

"I would have stayed, Bob," he said quietly. "We would've—we will work things out. It'll work out," he repeated fervently. He brought her hands to his lips.

"I want to stay—and not just for the baby—the babies—either." He swallowed, "You know I've never stopped loving you."

She could only nod tearily at the earnestness in his eyes and link her fingers with his tightly and lean in as he pulled her into an embrace.

* * *

><p><strong>An:**

**enceinte**, _adj  
><em>pregnant; with child

Based on a Twitter prompt from Emily ( CarasJohn) :)

Related to two other of my previous stories, _Beginnings and Ends_ and _That Other Thing._


	12. solstice, n

**solstice**, _noun_

When Christmas jingles start playing in the shops, a familiar dread grows and burrows itself in Lance's gut.

He doesn't want to spoil everyone's mood, it's his own problem, after all, so he plasters on a smile, digs deep into his bag of lazy sarcasm, and dives into helping Skye decorate the base.

It's not so bad when he's busy.

When the twenty-first arrives, it almost takes him by surprise. The dread leading up to the date was almost worse than the dread on the actual day. Almost.

Now, on top of everything else, he feels guilty— guilty that he had almost forgotten about it in the midst of all the festivity.

It's almost midnight when he begs out of Scrabble (where Simmons is winning everyone at, as usual), using a sure-fire combination of whining about the lousy eggnog ("What kind of lousy rum did you use this time Skye?") and the 'stabbing' feeling in his gut ("What kind of pain is it?" Jemma had asked concernedly, and he had been forced to describe it). Neither is technically a lie— just that the gut-deep ache he feels isn't from the eggnog; and the only thing wrong with the eggnog is that it is too weak to numb that ache. Almost everyone is too piled on the eggnog, too drunk on lights and laughs and love, to look more closely at his lie, and they wave him off after a fashion.

He avoids Bobbi's eyes as he leaves, pretends he doesn't feel her gaze following him out of the room.

Lance heads straight for the storeroom, where Mack or Coulson or someone had stashed crates of beer, and drags one out. He turns to leave the store, but on second thought, hefts out another.

It's snowing lightly by the time he parks the jeep in the middle of an empty field. Trees fringe the field, their naked branches holding the last of the previous snowfall. The full moon casts a pale light in the bleak darkness.

Lance shivers as he gets out the first beer and pops the cap off, the sound loud as a pistol in the silent night. His leather jacket is in the backseat, probably, but he deserves this, he deserves to feel the biting cold. He takes a long swig, and without the warmth of the base, the chipper voices of his friends, the memories, the anguish—the soul-deep _guilt_—quickly catch up with him.

How long had it been? Three years? Four? He finishes the bottle and grabs another.

_A heavy weight shoving him to the ground. The muffled shots of a gun. The body jerking against him once. Twice. Thrice. The metallic smell of warm, sticky blood. Empty, lifeless eyes that would never see again._

It hadn't been a mission—at least, it hadn't been _his_ mission.

He had gotten sick and tired of not knowing what Bobbi was up to, and she refused to tell him, so he'd dug around, discovered her assignment, realised she was heading straight into a trap, and—

_His son excitedly yelling _Daddy, Daddy's home!_.__Little feet pattering down the stairs. The look on his wife's face when she realised why he was there on her doorstep instead of her husband. _

He'd gone to the location with his best bud from the SAS; they had risen up the ranks together—_It'll be just like old times, _he'd told him, and he'd sensed the anxiety beneath the jollity in Lance's voice like only an old friend could, and agreed without hesitation—_As long as I get home by tomorrow, I'm taking my boy to see Santa_—

_The slap on his face as his wife had wailed, broken, pointing at her husband's coffin_—_It was you! It was your fault! You took him from us_—_He called you his best friend_—_it wasn't even a mission, there's no record of it with the SAS_—_it was your own selfish_—_You selfish bastard_—He didn't have to die—

It had been a trap, like he thought, and they would've butchered Bobbi, but the shots that killed his friend alerted her to the gunmen's presence and she managed to take them all out, but not before—

_How _dare_ you even show your face here, after what you did to my sister_—

He had left the SAS, after that. He couldn't face his men, the men who had been his friends, his brothers. You didn't let down one of your own, no matter what, and he'd let his brother get killed watching his back—

_The sobs of his frightened and confused son—Where's Daddy? Why isn't Daddy home yet?— The mewling of the newborn who would never know her father, the little princess his friend had never gotten to meet._

He didn't regret saving Bobbi, not at all; the pain he felt now for his friend would have been nothing compared to the anguish of losing her, he knew that, but—if he could have done something differently… if he hadn't asked him along, if he had taken the bullets himself…

_The smell of the rain, the dirt. The sound of the shovel._

It was his fault. _It was his fault._

Lance's stomach heaves, and he throws up over the side of the bonnet, a muddy mess against the scattered bottles and pristine snow. He gropes around for another bottle, blinded from tears.

"You're going to drink yourself to death," a quiet voice chides gently from beside him.

He feels the warm weight of a jacket over his shoulders, and doesn't wrestle Bobbi for the bottle when she unfurls his fingers from it. He doesn't look at her, the shame of being seen in this vulnerable state—by her, no less—making him edge away from her touch.

He hadn't even heard her coming, this time.

She pulls herself up onto the bonnet, leaving a space between them.

"It wasn't your fault," she says after a silence, and Lance just shakes his head, _leave it. _She had been through this with him enough times to know when he couldn't take her comfort, and she lets the silence lapse.

The wife's words and the children's faces swim in front of his eyes, and he reaches for another drink. Bobbi doesn't stop him.

He hadn't gone to Izzy's funeral. After all she had done for him—all they had been through together— he couldn't even bring himself to say one last goodbye. All because he was too much of a coward—he couldn't stand to see the pain and accusation in Jane's eyes, to tell her that he had failed her sister like how she had never failed him—_Izzy hadn't wanted to die_. He hadn't even been man enough to give Jane their mother's necklace—he'd hung it in her car, instead, as if that was sufficient recompense for the friend he had failed to save.

He pops a cap, and then another, and another. Memories of his dead friends, the friends he's let down—_I'm taking my boy to see Santa—I don't wanna die—_meld together in his mind, and—and— he wouldn't have traded saving Bobbi for anything, but he can't reconcile the relief that she's still alive with the guilt that it cost his friend his life—

The voices don't stop, and their anguished faces swim before him whether or not he closes his eyes, and on this night, as on every twenty-first December since he led his best friend to his death, he knows that no matter how much he drinks, it won't numb the pain, or the guilt, or the grief.

He gulps the liquid down, relishing the burn in his throat—_anything to distract from the pain, the guilt_—until the ground around them is littered with empty bottles.

Eventually, he allows Bobbi to pull him into her arms, and he sobs into her shoulder while she hugs him tightly, fiercely whispering _it's not your fault_ over and over as she grieves with him, a talisman against his demons.

-o-

It's still snowing when he finally pulls away, embarrassed, and Bobbi links her fingers with his wordlessly.

They stay like this, sitting side by side in silence; staring into the cold empty dark and mourning their dead, and wait for the longest night of the year to pass.

* * *

><p><strong>An:**

**solstice**, _n  
><em>(referring to the winter solstice in this fic)  
>An astrological phenomenon which marks the shortest day and the longest night of the year.<br>Usually occurs on December 21/22 in the Northern hemisphere.  
>The winter solstice itself lasts only a moment in time, so other terms are used for the day on which it occurs (e.g. "midwinter")<p>

-o-

"Why does any man do anything, General? I met a girl." –Hunter to General Talbott S02E02 (Heavy is the Head)

My take on why Hunter left the SAS. I don't think it was as simple as him meeting Bobbi and her asking him to leave, and anyway I don't think she would've asked that of him; it had to be something big, big enough to make him leave people he probably cared for very much.

What do you think? Is it plausible? Would love to hear your opinion!


	13. morse, n

**morse, **_noun_

Lance flops down on the bed beside Bobbi, huffing when she doesn't so much as glance his way. He peers round to read the blurb at the back of the book she's currently engrossed in—it's some crime-mystery-serial-killer thing, same as always. He doesn't understand this woman; he'd hardly ever dated the bookworm types, and when he did, they gushed on and on about romance and love and had insanely high expectations of him. The upside of that, though, was that they expected sex to be fantastic, and were more than willing to try out whatever strange positions they'd read about. And hell, Lance wasn't about to complain about that.

But this—well, Lance wasn't about to ask her to perform the acts she was reading about on him—they involve knives and torture, and not in a kinky way either. He nudges her leg with his knee, but she just moves it away, the traces of a frown on her forehead.

Fine.

He scoots up so that he's level with her and can peer down into her book, and she instinctively leans away—she hates when people do that, and he knows that full well—but twists at the last moment, holding the book at an angle so that he can read it too. She's been trying, and the action, small as it is, makes him smile.

He walks his fingers over to the pulse point at her wrist and rests it where he can feel the steady _thump, thump_ he has come to know so well. Bobbi reacts by turning the page of the book; he's done it so many times that she's gotten used to the feeling—it hardly ever tickles now. Taking a quick glance at her face to make sure she's properly engrossed in her book, he taps out an irregular rhythm on her wrist.

_.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..-_

It's a little awkward at first; he has to remember where the short taps are and where the longer beats go, but he does it over and over, a continuous _I love you, I love you, I love you, _until he can do it fluidly, without thinking. He looks up then, pleased with his accomplishment, and realises she's been watching him with a curious look on her face. His fingers pause in the middle of _love_, and he feels strangely panicked. She wouldn't know what he'd been typing, would she?

"What're you doing?" she asks, and he releases the breath he didn't know he had been holding.

"Nothing," he answers cheerfully, and resumes his tapping. Really, he wasn't sure why he was so nervous about it— it wasn't as if she didn't know he loved her.

-o-

It's only the years of practice of controlling her facial expressions that stop Bobbi from smiling. Of course she knows Morse code, her _name_ was Morse! Didn't he think she would have picked it up for that reason alone, if not because it was useful in her line of work?

Holding her book in one hand and pretending to read, she lets her left hand wander down between them to rest on his thigh, and her fingers tap out a quick message.

_I love you too, but that's starting to tickle._

Lance pauses halfway through her tapping, a half-horrified, half-curious look on his face—embarrassed realisation that she'd known what he'd been saying all this while mixed with confusion over what _she_ was saying.

Bobbi doesn't _really_ expect him to be able to decipher that, it would've been too fast for him (or anyone, for that matter) to catch, but she still stares at him expectantly. Lance's face screws up, trying to remember the order of taps and pauses, but eventually he gives up and shakes his head.

"What did you say?"

Bobbi cocks a brow. "What did I say?" she asks, all doe-eyed innocence. She bats her lashes for good measure, and Lance rolls his eyes.

"Do the tapping again!" he whinges. Bobbi smiles and shakes her head no.

"That's not fair! You wouldn't have been able to concentrate either if my hand were—" he reaches down to the analogous spot on her thigh but she catches his wrist, "Nuh-uh—"

"That's not fair!" he whines, and quickly darts back up to the pulse point at her neck, tapping erratically.

"Can you tell what I'm saying if I tap here? Or—" his hands trace the curve of her neck, her collarbone, outlines her breast, and he smirks when she leans into his touch. He taps the soft flesh in a pattern.

"See, I bet you can't tell what I said! It's distracting when—"

"You said 'I love you'," she cuts him off, and in spite of himself, Lance flushes red.

"I—Well—That's not fair—"

Bobbi cocks her head, waiting for a better argument, knowing he has none, and her lips quirk up at the look on his face.

"That's the only thing you know, isn't it," she asks amusedly, and he scowls.

"Come on, do it again!" he changes the topic back to her and wheedles for a repeat of her tapping.

She refuses, suddenly and inexplicably shy—maybe because she's never said those three words to him out loud before—and she's not ready, not just yet, so she tells him she was just saying it was ticklish and she was asking him to stop.

He looks at her suspiciously, but to her relief, decides not to press the point.

She gazes into his eyes, a silent thank you, and his blink and lazy smile tells her not to worry about it. His gesture—this space that he's learning to give her—fills her with a sudden rush of gratitude and affection, and she rewards with him with a kiss, his blood thrumming beneath her lips where they met his neck. (After all, positive reinforcement can't hurt, right?)

* * *

><p>Years later, Bobbi finds herself in bed again, with Lance absentmindedly tapping her wrist in that familiar pattern. She's lying flat on her back, arm flung over her eyes. The book lying open by her side is dog-eared and highlighted, well-read over the past nine months. Lance doesn't have to read the blurb of the book this time; he's read <em>What to Expect When You're Expecting <em>cover to cover at least thrice himself and can probably recite the seventh sentence of Chapter One by heart, punctuation and all.

"This is all your fault," Bobbi groans for the fifth time in two minutes, struggling to turn on her side to ease the ache in her back. She's as huge as a house, and it's so hard to get comfortable because the baby keeps squirming and somersaulting and really, the baby's getting too big for the cramped confines of her womb. Bobbi's _exhausted_—she needs to pee _all the time; _she doesn't walk anymore, she _waddles; _she hasn't had a good night's rest since May, and—

She takes a deep breath to calm her nerves, blinking back anxious, tired tears (she's never been this emotional, this child is changing her inside out and upside down and sometimes it's just too much to handle and she hates being so out of control of her emotions) and Lance must have noticed, because he stops his tapping and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek. She focuses on the sound of his breathing and calms down a little.

Lance studies her for a moment, taking in the tired lines in her face, then wriggles down so that his head is level with her stomach. He props himself up on an elbow and peels back the Star Wars shirt that's straining taut against her belly (when she'd started getting bigger she'd lamented that this baby would stretch her favourite shirt all out of shape, so he'd gotten her another one two sizes larger, but even this one was getting all stretched out—but he would have to have a death wish to point that out again) and kisses the creamy skin.

Bobbi smiles; it makes a sweet sight, from her vantage point, and she wishes she could take a snapshot of this moment. _He will make a good father, _she thinks, and the thought overwhelms her for some reason and she hiccups back a teary smile (_damn these hormones_).

Lance glances up and probably misinterprets her expression, because he frowns and presses his ear to her skin for a moment, before shifting and prodding her belly all over until he feels the baby nudge him back. He starts tapping her belly, his face a picture of concentration.

"What are you doing?" she asks bemusedly, but he flaps his hand in a shushing motion without even looking in her direction. She swallows a laugh at his uncharacteristic solemnity and concentrates on his tapping instead.

She expects the familiar sequence of short and long taps, the one he's done so frequently that she knows it by heart, too; so when it starts off differently she's more than a little surprised—she had no idea he knew Morse code for anything other than 'I love you'.

She has no difficulty deciphering his tapping; codes have always come easy to her, much less _Morse, _and it turns out he's asking their baby to settle down, because "you're hurting Mummy, and she can't rest properly, and she loves you very much, but she's also very tired, so take a nap alright, baby bird?"

Bobbi is sure it's just a fluke, pure coincidence, because _how would the baby have learnt Morse code_ _in the womb?, _but their baby bird _does_ settle down, almost alarmingly quickly, and Bobbi palms her belly in surprise. She's both amused and overwhelmed, but the latter emotion wins out and she tears up again. She has no idea where Hunter would've learnt or when he had gotten so fluent at Morse code, and she has no doubt in her mind that he'd learnt it for her. But more than that, she feels so _loved_ that he would do this, talk to their baby for her, and she tugs him up for a kiss.

"Thank you," she whispers tearfully. (The part of her brain that isn't drowning in hormones frowns and is frustrated at all this emotional behaviour, but it's not like she can do anything about it)

Lance smiles, his eyes warm and sweet (oh she hopes their baby will have his eyes), and bops her nose with his.

"She'll be good now," he says, jerking his chin toward the imp in her belly. He crows about his ability to calm baby better than she can, _she's already a Daddy's girl, and such a little genius, she already knows Morse code—_

"She can't know Morse code Lance, that's not possible."

"Did you not just see what happened!" he protests, gesturing toward her belly. "She _knows_ it, it's practically _genetic, _I mean, your name is Morse for goodness' sake—"

"Genetic? Do you even know what genetic means Hunter?"

"Oh it's _Hunter _now is it, well how about I ask her to start kicking all over again—"

"It won't work, she doesn't know Morse code, it was just a coincidence!"

"She _knows_ Morse code—she'll listen to her daddy!" He starts tapping a rhythm on her belly, his face screwed up in concentration, and she sweeps his hand off her belly.

"Stop it—"

"See! You're afraid it'll work! She _knows_ Morse code and you're afraid I'm right!"

"Don't be ridiculous Hunter, that's not possible."

"_I'm _ridiculous?! Well that's rich, I—what's wrong?" His tone changes abruptly and he drops his faux heatedness as he notices the sudden worry on her face. "Bobbi."

She doesn't respond, just shifts so she's sitting up and frowns and feels about her abdomen, damping down the slow rise of fear in her throat. Lance's voice takes on a note of panic, "Sweetheart? What's wrong?" His eyes follow her gaze and dart downward.

"Bob?"

He covers her hand where she's cupped her belly, where the baby's head would be.

"She's—she's not moving," Bobbi forces out, remembered panic and grief and pain threatening to overwhelm her, and it takes no small amount of effort to stop the hysteria from leaking into her voice as she pokes and prods to cajole some movement out of their child.

Lance swallows—fear is contagious—but he can't panic, he has to stay strong for her, so with false cheeriness he laughs, "Of course she isn't, I told her not to move so much, didn't I? I told you she was a Daddy's girl."

To her belly, he says, "Mummy's such a worrywart, isn't she love?" He flattens his palm and feels all across the expanse of taut skin, applying pressure, silently praying for any movement—he knows it's probably nothing, the baby's probably fine, but- but—

He makes a show of tapping where the baby's head is, and dictates as he taps, '_kick mummy'_, and despite herself, Bobbi finds herself holding her breath.

Nothing happens after a long moment, and Bobbi chokes back a sob—_she can't lose this one, she can't— _she gropes about blindly for Lance's hand, and he grasps hers tightly while the other hand taps out a _'kick Mummy now_' more insistently.

When the baby kicks obligingly and reassuringly beneath Bobbi's hand, she laughs shakily, tears of relief beneath her lids.

"Well!" Lance exhales, and the relief is evident in his voice too, "It looks like we've got a literal one here, aye Bob?"

* * *

><p><strong>An:**

**morse, **_noun  
><em>an alphabet or code in which letters are represented by combinations of long and short light or sound signals.

Baby bird fic! :D

I meant it to be cute and adorable and I don't know how it got painful at the end for that bit and I'm sorry D:


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